


Parenthetical

by TrueMyth



Category: The X-Files
Genre: Chocolate, Counter Sex, F/M, Kitchen Sex, Midnight phone call, Originally Posted on LiveJournal
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-08-09
Updated: 2015-08-09
Packaged: 2018-04-13 18:31:14
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 867
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/4532703
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/TrueMyth/pseuds/TrueMyth
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Scully gets another midnight call from Mulder.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Parenthetical

**Author's Note:**

> Written for the second round of xf_pornbattle (at LiveJournal) for the prompts: midnight phone call, chocolate, kitchen counter, height differential. This was betaed by the marvelous memories_child.

“Scully, I need you.”

That was all he’d said and she’d come running. Trench coat thrown over satin pajamas, boots half zipped, she’d stumbled to the car and made the twenty minute drive to his apartment. Scenarios played in her head: global conspiracies (probably not what he thought), mysterious informants at his place (why did he always trust them?), little ~~green~~ grey men (do not exist, do not exist, do not exist). Heaven help her if he was covered in blood again! 

Which is why she was rather confused when he answered the door licking chocolate frosting from his thumb. 

“Oh, you came!” She followed the thread of his voice to the kitchen, trying not to notice the way his sweats hung low enough to show the dimples of his lower back (sagittally symmetrical indentations just superior to the gluteal cleft, beautiful). 

In her sleep-deprived, hormone-riddled daze she missed his words, but he was suddenly holding a bowl of frosting to his (rather defined) chest and a chocolate-coated finger under her nose. He looked rather expectant.

Scully’s heart picked up speed (adrenaline, perfectly natural reaction), but she remained calm as she grabbed his wrist, brought his thumb to her mouth, sucked off the dab of chocolate and pronounced it, “Good.” She focused on the taste of the chocolate (rich, maybe a little bitter still, needs more sugar) and not the taste of the man himself (salty, no sugar needed). She held his gaze with her own to make clear this was all business. Mulder only stared at her for a second (what? What was wrong?), and then his gaze narrowed and sharpened with an intensity he typically saved for the interrogation room (had she suddenly developed a serial killer at the corner of her mouth?). Scully flicked the tip of her tongue to that corner (mmm, more chocolate) and let her lips fall open as Mulder’s eyes seemed to flash in the low light (would it kill him to put in some wall-sconces? How can you cook if you can’t see what you’re prepping? Or the read the timer? Did the man even have a cooking – WAIT, WHAT WAS HE DOING?) 

Mulder leaned in, following her retreating tongue, lips moving closer and closer (seriously? This was how it happened?!) until their chocolate breaths mingled, recognized each other, sighed deep (what is he waiting for?).

(Oh, god, he’s waiting for me.)

(He’ll wait for me forever at this rate. Do I have to do everything?) 

(His thumb is rather sticky on my cheek.)

(I wonder what other parts of him would taste like covered in -) 

And she closed the distance, swept her tongue into his mouth and raked her fingers through his soft hair. He rushed her like a lineman about to make a play (and why not, he’s totally going to score), and Scully heard a crash behind them while she gasped into his mouth, a hot rush of air pushed out from the press of the counter at her back. His bowl had dropped and likely broken into jagged shards (not safe for his bare feet). They were way too dissimilar in height. So she hopped up, climbing his body like a rhesus monkey and landing her ass on cool tile (it was only practical on all counts, really).

His heat pressed into the juncture of her thighs, and she tilted her head back, welcoming (demanding, really) the exploration of her neck (and lower) while she finally gave herself license to investigate his body with no other excuse than worship (oh, to do _this_ every Sunday). The muscles of his back were enchanting, but one hand quickly fell to those delightful dimples and the glory they crowned. He moaned hot air and monosyllables into the turn of her ear as she pressed against him and wrapped satin-clad legs around his hips. His cock was insistent against her warmth and his vocalizations were growing strained (I’ve still got it!) when she realized her shirt was long gone (fuck, has it really been six years since…?) because his lips (ah!) were circling (oh!) her nipple (my!) while his hand found -(GOD!) 

Rational thought became fragmented, consisting of: 

(Oh, wonderful, _clever_ man!), (Where did my pants go?), and (Yes, yes, yes!) 

Mostly, for the first time in years when not on the firing range, Dana Scully let her body take over, let it guide the flow of her hands, the flex and relax of muscles, the regulation of air intake while maximizing the amount of his skin sampled, licked, devoured, sucked. At one moment, she caught their reflection in the dark pane of the kitchen window. His beautiful ass was taut as he pushed into her, filling her desires and flesh simultaneously. One boot was still on, pressing him deeper. She may have winked at the red-head in the dark mirror before reclaiming his lips for another drugging, chocolate kiss.

It was only after they’d finished, rescued some of the icing, and taken it to bed that she thought to ask, “Mulder, why did you call me?”

“Oh, that. I couldn’t remember the right temperature for baking brownies and I don’t have any cook books…” 

(Where are my handcuffs?)

**Author's Note:**

> I can be found on Tumblr under the same user name.


End file.
